October crept in like a naughty child. My back was turned, focus drawn to a series of overseas assignments and the impending Jog Shop Jog.
Welcome then, October. Here's hoping there's a bit more running to write about.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
From Gorky Park to Oligarkhs, Hammer and Sickle to Slap and Tickle, Moscow has seen more face changes than a second-rate film star.
I first came to this city in 1984; pre glasnost, full-on grim, grey USSR, all trench coats and furry hats; ‘Niet’ was the word.
The streets were dark and forbidding, the only light cast from the occasional street lamp. It was November, the Mockba river frozen, thick snow abundant. For the first time in my life I was reprimanded for jay-walking. I've never been so frightened, before or since.
A return during the fabulous World Cup that was Italia ’90, nights shoe-horned into the Heineken Bar at the Cosmos hotel shoulder to shoulder with singing Belgians and weeping Italians. David Platt in the last minute of extra time, Champanski, the Lambada . . . so many memories. A nation in transition, post-Chernenko, the time of Gorbachev, MacDonalds on Red Square, freedom in the air, a new hope.
And now, sixteen years later I’m back; and I’ve not seen the like of this place.
Street signs blare in the October night, a parody of the true Land of the Free. The Spirit of Free Money-Making is alive and well in the belly of modern Moscow. A cab from the airport to the hotel, an hours’ bumpy ride at full speed even at two in the morning, cost me sixty quid. I assumed I’d been mugged but swapping tales with colleagues its about the going rate. Hookers populate the 'tourist' bars and lurk in the lobbies and drinking dens of the larger hotels; the air is thick with vice and corruption.
At the shiny new exposition centre at Crocus City on the northern reaches of the sprawling metropolis corruption thrives like a new-born reptile, squirming through every badly-lit passageway of business life. Use the freight elevator sir? That’ll be two hundred dollars. You need a couple of workers - Oh, you’ve prepaid a vast sum of money? Well, if you slip me a small King’s Ransom I’ll see if I can persuade them to actually do some work for you. It's an endless, exhausting cycle. The system is as faceless and intransigent as it ever was; the wheels are no longer greased with a packet of smokes or a bottle of Vodka. Only Hard Currency will cut the ice and greed is the word.
There’s an expo here next month that well reflects the state of modern Russia.
Its called Millionaire’s Expo, and as the name suggest caters for the man who has everything but would like a bit more. Volker, my Ukranian-born, German- raised associate here, informs me that last year one visitor purchased a helicopter five minutes after entering the building. Next to this center is a shopping mall. It’s a magnificent building replete with columns and facades, a glittering marble entrance and ample parking. In the past four days I’ve seen a grand total of two dozen vehicles at any one time parked outside. Visitors arrive, whisked into the building with their wives or girlfriends, sheilded by a bustle of large, bald men in dark suits sporting ear-pieces. They emerge some hours later, minders laden with bags marked Prada, Gucci, Rolex and Bugati. This is not IKEA; this is not Homebase. This is not a ‘Mall for All’ – this is Millionaire’s Row, a private shopping facility for the New Russia.
On the running front its been a disappointing trip.
I located a Hash group, meeting every Sunday at 13:05 at the Tchaikovsky Theatre to move on via car share or Metro to the start of their chase. Sadly I was up to my neck in packing crates and customers and missed a great opportunity. At Andy’s suggestion I checked out Run the Planet, finding a couple of likely circuits, one starting from Red Square, traversing the mighty river and on to Gorky Park. I hope to give this a whirl on Wednesday, my morning off. 'Gorky Park' evokes memories of the eponymous eighties thriller starring William Hurt as a downbeat Moscow Copper on the trail of murder, corruption and death.
It seems to me these themes, whilst morphed out of all recognition, remain at the core of life here.
Spaceba Bolshoi; Вы и настолько длинне от Moscoq
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There’s few oppressed nations in the world can hold a candle to the Russians.
From Napoleon to Hitler every jack-booted wannabe next ruler of the world has taken on the might of the Russian People only to see their ambition smashed on the jagged, frozen edge of this rock-hewn race.
You can see the inherent hardness etched into the faces of the men and women going about their daily business. Grey faces under grey skies, it sure is grim. ‘There ain’t no love in the heart of the city, there ain’t no love in the heart of town.’ The words ran through my head as I plodded heavily along Kapelsky Street and onto Prospekt Mira, the traffic-laden, fume-choked monster of a freeway leading south towards Lubyanka and the Bolshoy. The sea of red tail lights shining through the misty drizzle reminded me of another song; Frank Zappa’s City of Tiny Lights. The music video is a heady mix of morph-like animation (one of the first to use stop-motion techniques later seen in the Peter Gabriel video for Sledgehammer) and super-speed camera work using the lights of cars and trucks to form an endless slithering snake through a night-time metropolis. This particular collection of lights was, by contrast, going nowhere fast, or even at all. Yesterday it took us close to two hours to travel twenty miles from Crocus City to our hotel in Suschevsky; a joyless daily experience that won't be missed. My colleagues, event organizers one and all, managed the boredom by loading the minibus with cases of beer and a bottle or two of wine. Admirable foresight, except surprisingly (considering their vocation) no-one calculated that ladies drinking a lot of liquid on a long bus journey might require the occasional pit stop. Suffice to say the journey home was peppered with mad dashes for the roadside bushes, much to the delight of the strong-bladdered amongst us.
There must be love in the heart of this city but the people of Moscow keep it well hidden, like their repressed counterparts in the original Orwelian nightmare. Perhaps its under a spreading Chestnut tree but I’m buggered if I can find one in this concrete jungle. Public displays of affection can be construed as weakness, and here we have a nation with a proud tradition of resilience and survival to uphold. When Moscovites smile they can light up a room, but the chances of catching such an act in the open air is as likely as catching the Pope sneaking in to Ibrox.
My destination of choice today was Freedom Park (also known as Victory Park), enticingly portrayed on my city map as a green oasis, home to the Dostoevsky museum, the theatre of the Sovietsky Army and a large lake. It looked packed with wonders of the former USSR and I could barely contain my enthusiasm as I hit the streets.
I passed countless locals, their shoulders hunched as if burdened by the pervasive bleakness. Rusted metal lay abandoned on the roadside against the crumbling shell of a building, glass long since gone from the windows, the front door AWOL and litter spilled out onto the sidewalk. I received the occasional cursory glance as I shuffled past the bus queues and loitering locals but didn’t risk a Shearer. These people remain oppressed, they’ve no time for foreigners. The jackboots may have been replaced by polished brogues, the chin-straps and hard-hats by Hollywood smiles and dark suits, but its still a case of meet the new tyrant, same as the old tyrant.
Survival is everything; give them nothing.
My route, somewhat improvised (the map dry, safe and, laid out on my bed back at the hotel, utterly useless) using the impressive needle of the Ostankino tower as a reference point, took me over a railway bridge. There was every chance I might spot a steam engine, still in frequent use I’m told, but not this time. The tracks lie dormant, as unloved and unemployed as so many of the people appear to be.
After three miles or so I spied the edges of what I hoped would be the park. Autumn is in full flow here, the rusty leaves entirely in keeping with the faded surroundings. This yellow-brown carpet was definitely getting thicker, the promise of untainted air lifting my spirits. Sure enough a few moments later I arrived at the edge of a large boating lake. Beyond the boathouse I could make out the park gates where Mothers and Babushkas – Russian Grandmothers – pushed prams and pushchairs along leaf-strewn pathways. I felt overwhelming relief as I pounded after them into the welcoming arms of the forest.
Freedom/ Victory Park deals in freedoms on several levels.
The museums and monuments scattered through its acreage pay homage to the fallen defenders of the city and exalt the repulshion of would-be invaders. There’s a small hill in the park where it is said Napoleon waited on his horse for the keys to Moscow. Sadly for Boney he was foiled by Moscows' greatest defender of all; the mighty Russian winter; the only key he'd see after that was the gaolers' turning in the lock on St Helena.
What a shame then that due to a blend of general incompetence, late night draining of a long line of Corona Extras and a tragic inability to read a tourist map I managed to miss the wonders of this particular landmark by several miles.
The freedom I felt today as I plunged on gamely through the leafy lanes was that of the mind and of the soul, to be savored no matter the name of the park. For here, in the cold heart of the cruel concrete beast that is Moscow, lay a small pieced of heaven, a sea of tranquility, Narnia without the wardrobe. The vision of meandering pathways lined with old-fashioned street lamps and Victorian-style balustrades took my breath away. A pity as by now drawing enough breath was a bit of a problem. The enforced inertia of recent weeks had left me sluggish, wheezy. An hour into my Moscow jaunt I’d about sweated out all the fluid I could spare and fought for breath like a mountaineer nearing the summit. I relaxed my pace and snapped a few shots of my surroundings. No doubt my camera-phone will do little justice to the aura of the place, but hopefully these grainy images will, for me at any rate, recall the magic I felt at that moment.
I still had to get back to the hotel, shower and get to Crocus City before four pm. I set off once more in the direction of the telecom tower (one of the first buildings to be surrounded by the National Guard in the event of an attempted coup, I’m told. He who controls the broadcasters and all that) knowing so long as I had sight of its heavenward spike I would find my way home. The drizzle, fairly constant all day, finally gave it a rest, though I was already saturated by a mixture of rain and sweat. I couldn’t have got much wetter if I’d jumped in the boating pool.
With the park behind me and the roar of endless traffic just ahead I approached the railway bridge when I heard a fearful shriek, the sound of a thousand lost souls wailing in unison; a steam engine! I dug deep, picking up pace, desperate not to miss this blast from my past. Sure enough thick plumes of steel-grey and dirty white smoke appeared, and finally the engine itself, pistons pumping as it hauled its carriages under the bridge. What fabulous luck! My eyes filled as fond memories of another age flooded through me.
Grinning like a fool I pushed on, determined to get back without a walk-break, still desperate for water. I glanced at my ‘phone; I’d been plodding for about two hours. Even at my modest pace I must’ve banked 20k or so, way too far without a drink. Back at the Holiday Inn I stretched out against a large wooden flower tub, much to the horror of the doorman. My calves and hamstrings made their displeasure known in the strongest terms, yet I ignored the whinging and carried on stretching, mindful that another couple of days patrolling the hard concrete floors of the exhibit halls would magnify the consequences of an insufficient warm-down.
I'm out of here on Saturday night. A week to go and it'll be Jog Shop Jog time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Slipped out for a nippy five this morning. Perfect conditions for a hilly one, blustery wind, ground slick with heavy overnight rain, rocks and mud-puddles adding an element of danger. I felt pretty strong – as I should after what amounts to a two week taper with the occasional lope thrown in – and finished my first sub-45 minute BlackCap for many months.
I’ll manage a couple more outings this week, probably on Wednesday and Thursday (when an easy three miler will be ample to spin the legs before Sunday’s ultimate challenge). My fingers, toes and other appendages are crossed for at least dull/ overcast conditions for Sunday – if I’m really lucky there’ll be some wind and rain about, too.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Tis the season to be poorly.
A couple of years ago I missed out on the Dublin marathon (and hours of fabulous celebration in the arms of red-headed beauties sporting pints of Guinness - well, alright, hours of celebration in the arms of SP. The Guinness was real enough). Last year I blew out the Jog Shop 20 when my seasonal respiratory collapse hit mere weeks before. I always seem to pick up ailments just before 'important' races. Often its proven to be nothing more than shadowy demons messing with my head.
This time its a little more serious.
First up everyone else in my house has the lurghie.
Sore throats, grumbling stomachs and thermostatic rollercoasters abound at Chez Sweder. Yet this time (as the song so horribly put it), more than any other time, this time, I'll get it right. I'm Jog-Shop Jogging on Sunday come what may. Only sudden and irrevocable limb loss can intervene. This is my home town run, comparable with most marathons for effort and application, and I'm damn well going to run the bastard.
So, any of you poxy mucus-dwelling germs who might be listening, pack up and ship out.
The Sweder's not for turning.
Sniff.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Seafront Plodder Wrote:Just looking at the middle pic.....err, is there anything that you are allowed to do in the park?
Clearly, this is not Freedom Park!
Actually, I'm at a complete loss as to what some of them mean. No mushroom picking, no toasters, no Santas?
Oh Sweder, stay healthy by the way. Are we to assume that you've fought off the little bug(ger)s thus far? The rest of the family will cope for a few days more - stay well away from 'em.
It's like the Black Hole of Calcutta here just now.
Big cross on the door, bio hazard signs all over the place.
Still, a remedy is in sight. SP's taking me out for a pre-race warm up on Friday night
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Grey, soul-less skies, a chill wind and a teasing whisp of drizzle in the air. Heaven. My hypochondriac tendencies had been in overdrive all week; sore throats, coughs, hacking coughs, phlegm and finally an impressive hangover all in cahoots, assuring me that taking on the Jog Shop Jog this morning is nothing short of blind madness.
But I’ve been reading a lot of Hunter S Thompson lately. Whilst the Great Gonzo would almost certainly have scoffed at my futile attempts to run alongside the hardened athletes of Sussex I’m sure he’d have applauded the kamikaze-style way in which I take to his doctrine.
Don’t simply face your fear; hoist your flag high and run headlong, screaming, into its cold black heart.
The toast and honey nestle in my gurgling belly, the remnants of Friday’s Guinness-fest drowning the nutrients in a fomenting pool of black foulness. Each well-worn nipple lies buried beneath a huge George Cross of Microporous Tape. Vaseline is warming in those areas most likely to chaff and my drinks bottle cools, appropriately, in my beer fridge.
The time is now. Should I flounder hopelessly in the foothills of Death Valley, or my bones become pickings for Magpies on the slopes of the Big W, know this. I went with a willing heart and a fuzzy head, to do that thing that I believe Sunday mornings were made for.
Cry God for England, Harry and Sam Lambourne.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hope the Jog Shop run went well. Your training has been of the most varied imaginable, from China to Moscow and with a post-session 20 (?) miler to polish it all off
I take my boina off to you señor!
And so it came to pass that at 8.45 on a breezy, hazy Sunday morning I stood shivering with my fellow Sunday lopers, surrounded by interlopers and blackguards from all corners of the region. Seaford Striders, Sevenoaks Harriers, Brighton & Hove Athletics Club . . . they’d all sent envoys to compete in ‘our’ race. From the banter in the paddock I gleaned that some were old hands at the downland challenge, their countenance relaxed, voices low, storing energy for the trials ahead. Others keen, eyes gleaming, voices high and chatter quick, a little more green around the gills. A world of fun awaits the newbies.
Steve, Paul, Michael, Chris, Gary . . .the usual suspects, all looking horribly well and unpardonably fit. I studied this pack of lithe, hungry jackals, feeling empathy with trapped prey everywhere.
But lo! What vision of athletic prowess appeared before me? None other than Sir Roger of Paris, the self-styled pimpernel, not seen hide nor hair of for several months, large as life, bold as brass, resplendent in an orange vest worthy of a preservation order.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ I couldn’t stop the spreading grin.
‘I’ve found religion. Been going to Church every Sunday, so I’ve been running in the week. Hello chaps.’
That’s the thing about Rog, you’re never quite sure if he’s taking the piss. As it turned out he wasn’t this time. Still, he looked good and announced that, despite a maximum post Paris jaunt of eleven miles, he was looking forward to today’s test.
Called under starters orders, some hundred souls gathered in the lee of the overpass.
Jill arrived, red faced, breathless, looking for a safe place to stash her bike.
‘I popped into the Jog Shop yesterday to check out some new shoes’ she explained. ‘Sam asked me if I was running today. I said I’d not done a long run in three weeks but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
Herr Lambourne raised his stopwatch and sent us on our way. Starting within the Marina car park meant an instant climb up the zig-zag path to the cliff tops, some two hundred feet above. I was relieved to feel the wind in my face at the summit. An Easterly blast would make life a lot easier, pushing us up the Yellow Brick Road and guiding us home over the last, leg-burning miles.
A mile in and our number were well spread, forming a disorderly, colourful ribbon bobbing across the cliff tops. I ran with Chris and Rog, chatting easily about recent weeks, running, not running, travels, forthcoming events, life in general. We caught up with Jill just before the plunge into Rottingdean village and the sweeping right-hander onto the undercliff. This, as the name suggests, is a sea-level pathway in the shadow of the looming chalk edifice, covering the mile between Rottingdean and Saltdean.
At Saltdean we turned left into the sub-road tunnel and towards the Famous Residences. I felt fair to middling at this point, muscles warming easily, breathing relaxed, but the suggestion of an unusual and unwelcome tightness in my right calf and hamstring caused concern. I shuffled my water belt a few inches, wondering if I’d squashed a nerve, but the niggle persisted. I scrawled a mental note to keep sensors tuned in and plodded on. Chris had put his foot down, leaving Rog and I to rekindle the Spirit of The Champs Elysee. It was great to run together again. Despite an age since our last outing, when Rog (calf) and I (general lack of fitness) had struggled, taking ‘the walk of shame’ up the Snake, we were still perfectly well-matched for pace. We chattered on about our children’s exploits; how they drive you insane at times, make you feel ten feet tall at others. The climb out of the Residences put paid to that for a while, oxygen required to feed the engine room as the pavement turned to muddy farm track and the world tilted steadily upward.
I knew this would test the remnants of my lurghie. Half way to the summit I started ejecting lung-butter, the first couple of emissions dark green and most foul. Finally I ran out of ammo, relieved to have avoided convulsions. Into the cow fields and our first glimpse of Lewes and her guardian hills. The sun, ‘till now peering down on us through an opaque window of haze and mist, finally shimmered its way through, lighting the valleys with a soft yellow glow. Heaven should look so fabulous.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sign posts and marshals are rare commodities on the Jog Shop Jog. One of the latter waved to us cheerily as he held open the gate leading to the foot of the North Face.
‘Little incline coming up’ he chortled.
Thanks mate.
I pushed on, keen to build a little momentum, mindful of the genius of Spock’s slingshot method in Star Trek IV - The Voyage Home, certain the ultimate logic would apply here. And in some small measure it worked. At least I was halfway up the goat-track before I realised I was oxygen-deprived, feet working overtime to navigate the humps and hillocks of the well-worn trail. I passed a few less-committed bodies, huffing up the hill with heavy treads and heads bowed, no doubt sampling the delights of the course for the first time.
I smiled to myself. There’ll be a few here today who’ve no idea what’s in store. Oh, they’ll have heard tales of hill climbs, no doubt visited the Jog Shop Jog website (still proudly displaying details of last years’ race); but until you’ve met these landmarks head-to-head you can’t really appreciate how merciless they can be. I confess to a certain smugness – I’ve paid my dues, in spades.
I paused at the top. Rog pulled alongside, dropping his hands to his knees. We drank deeply from the clear morning air, eyeing the water station.
‘Time for a gel.’ I grabbed a beaker of water from the table.
‘Yellow Brick Road next – yippee!’
As expected/ hoped for the wind was kind, bowling along at a fair rate of knots from behind and to our right. We continued our banter as farmland made way for the eponymous road, the sun at our backs, clear skies all around. Life was good, and the YBR, such a monster into a Westerly, rolled over like a puppy.
Ahead and to our right I could make out runners descending the first stroke of the Big W, reminding me of tougher tests in store. I took a swig from my water bottle and turned to Rog.
‘Big W mate – watch out, could be slippery.’
And it was. I tried running on the ridged path hosting the most tufts of grass in the vain hope I might find some grip, but ultimately settled for a flat-out lung-busting suicidal plummet. Somehow this worked, even when it came to hurdling the vicious cattle grid halfway down.
‘Risky!’ shouted some Captain Cautious type as he slowed to open a farmer’s gate alongside the track.
Bollocks, I thought, plunging on towards the copse on the edge of Kingston Village. I’d thought about this section more than most before today. My last two attempts at the W resulted in a large amount of walking and I was quite prepared to go that way again. Except I felt good. Perhaps the gel had kicked in, maybe it was a false dawn and I’d run out of steam halfway up. I bounded up the rocky trail, passing another cluster of walkers, until the tightening in my right leg bit sharply. I pulled up right away.
‘Alright?’
‘Yeah, right legs a bit tight. Think I’ll walk this bit.’
Rog joined me and we managed to stomp to the top at a reasonable pace, running the last hundred metres 'in case there's a photographer at the top.' There wasn't.
‘Same again?’
‘Love to!’
And we were off along the grassy trail to the second part of the W. We chose to walk from bottom to top, aware that the next climb to Castle Hill was, whilst runable, still pretty harsh. Best to keep something in reserve. Ten minutes later Castle Hill Nature Reserve hove into view and Rog and I were back on the jabber, Cape Town the main topic.
‘Bloody Hell! You two are trying to make this look easy!’
A wild-haired, moustachioed runner in a bright yellow vest with black hoops drew alongside.
‘What are you chattering about?’
‘Two Oceans – doing it in April.’
‘Just done the Comrades meself – ta-ta!’ – and with that he was off, heading for the gate. A silent glance confirmed that we weren’t having that and we set off in hot pursuit, catching then overtaking the fellow on the steep drop through the reserve.
‘Get down quicker with heavy legs!’ I quipped as I plunged past the Harry Enfield Scouser look-alike.
‘Specially when you’ve got seven pints of Guinness in each one!’ yelled Rog, two steps behind me.
‘Wayhay – Snake next!’ he bellowed.
Almería 2004 sprang instantly to mind, Nigel and I hammering up the Ramblas, me chanting my Snake mantra.
I felt an homage coming on.
‘The Killer awoke before dawn’ I yelled.
‘He put his boots on. He took a face from the ancient gallery and he
WALKED ON DOWN THE HALL . . . ‘
Terry McDermott (for it was surely he) had backed way off by now. We crashed through another gate and into the somewhat disappointingly grassy plains of Death Valley, on towards the foothills of the Serpent.
As I’ve said before, the first half mile of the Snake is deceptively tough.
I was reminded of this today as my legs turned to concrete leaving me to flounder horribly in Rog’s wake. Rog of course had been up this way three times already this week, the Snake being part of his usual eight mile circuit. I clenched my teeth and clung on, struggling to run whilst avoiding the ubiquitous, ankle-snapping badger scrapes. Another gate, and time for another belt from my bottle. Rog slowed ahead, obviously keen to get onto the Snake proper. I held up my hand in apology.
‘Sorry mate, heavy legs.’
We walked a few steps as I gulped fluid. My aching muscles relaxed a tad and we set off once more, rounding the first left-hander . . . into the teeth of a small yet persistent gale.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘S'alright, this’ll be helping soon.’
Of course. The sheep-mown grass trail twists to such an extent that no matter what the direction of the wind you’ll get help at some stage. It couldn’t come fast enough for me. I struggled all the way, teeth set, arms pumping, bulging eyes focused on the next turn, knowing only too well the intricate series of deceptions on this endless climb. Finally we were on the last straight. At least I’d catch a breather at the gate . . . but no. I’d assumed this would make a perfect water station, being a few hundred metres form the main road at Woodingdean, but our only spectators were two thoroughly pissed off St John’s Ambulance people. Is it just me or do they issue all St. John’s uniforms two sizes too small? These two had been roughly stuffed into theirs, the ragged appearance enhanced by their obvious displeasure at being dumped in the arse-end of nowhere to watch a load of nutters flog themselves up a large hill.
The course doubles back at the head of the Snake, dropping back down into the valleys to pick up the road past the reservoir and back to Rottingdean. I struggled still, my legs growing heavier by the minute. I sucked down a Hammergel (Espresso, Mmm) and another generous helping of water in the vain hope it might do some good. Weeks of pounding rock-hard exhibition halls had taken its toll, on my calves especially. The thought of Windmill Hill did little to improve my humour. Mercifully the road into Rottingdean is a gradual drop, making my weight a useful ally in the quest for momentum whilst easing the pressure on my battered legs. Windmill Hill was walked in an effort to preserve them for the final push home. I was on course to make it, too, when finally both calves gave up the ghost as if linked, like ET and Elliot. They didn’t so much pop as just go instantly granite-like and I knew I was done for. Less than two wind-assisted cliff top miles stood between me and my coveted Jog Shop Jog medal, yet it felt like ten miles and all of it up hill. The pain was hideous but I stumbled on. Rog, gallant to the last, waved away my insistence that he strike for home.
‘Neither of us have done this one before, so we’ll both get a medal and a PB!’ he beamed.
‘Try to relax your feet a bit, it might help.’
It didn’t, but the encouragement and camaraderie worked wonders.
‘Ouch . . . Aagh . . . Oooof’ the sound effects were pathetic but they, too, seemed to help.
Maybe Monica Seles was onto something after all . . .
After what seemed like an afternoon the Marina appeared and blissfully, mercifully we turned into the zig-zag descent. Below us early finishers gathered, draining beakers of water and juice, munching on cake. One or two fingers pointed towards us, heads tilting, eyes squinting in the sunshine.
“Heey! There they are!’
Warm applause greeted our last turn and we ran, chests out, side by side to the finish. Amazingly the pain was gone, washed away by a river of back-slaps and warm congratulations, grinning sweaty faces and offers of a pint. A young girl stepped forward to offer our medals. I took mine and looked carefully at it, at once realising I’d wanted to run this race more than any other, and now, finally, ill health, crazy travel schedule and SPs best efforts not withstanding, I had. Emotion coursed through me as I studied the inscriptions on the pewter disc:
The North Face. The Big W. The Yellow Brick Road. Death Valley. The Snake. THE JOG SHOP JOG.
I felt myself welling up, at once confused, mildly embarrassed and certainly relieved. I scurried off to the finishers table, grabbing a beaker of juice and checking up on the price of fruit cake. Back in control I rejoined the others to welcome home more finishers. Paul (the Welsh Hill-Wizard) had, according to Irish Michael, shot off in customary fashion, bounding into the hills like a supercharged mountain goat. Despite a week-long cold and all manner of pre-race protestations he’d come home in 2:27 to take sixth place. Chris had crossed in 3:15, Rog and I were credited with, unofficially, 3:19. I was delighted, Rog more pragmatic.
‘Told you you’d get a PB’ he grinned.
‘Now, how about a pint?’
Talks a lot of sense, that Rog.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
If and when Sweder leaves this site, those left will long after sigh, and talk about the "Sweder Days", when wonderful, 3-dimensional reports were posted within a few hours of a race.
I just love this stuff. It really is good.
Thanks.
And well done.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
'Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan "press on" has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.' - Calvin Coolidge.
Or, even better, a quote from the master wordsmith himself:
'Another Dragon slain'. - Sweder.
Thanks for the kind words.
Nigel has it about right - a triumph for persistence, or at least sheer bloody-mindedness. Actually Dan I think the conditions were about perfect; sunny but not too hot, a helpful breeze . . . but I'd have loved a shower or two along the way. There's something slightly wrong with running a brutal race in gorgeous conditions.
Next Sunday is a 'step back' run - probably a maximum of 12 miles. All are welcome, with the optional extra of a stopover at Chez Sweder on Saturday night (and the prospect of the occasional glass of ale).
I'm in the market for some deep muscle massage, a remedy suggested by Rog at regular intervals during my noisy suffering yesterday. At one point, just after he'd mentioned how effective DMM would be for the umteenth time, it dawned on him that such advice at that precise moment was doing little for my pain.
'OK, I'll shut up about the massage now.'
Thanks again Rog.
[SIZE="1"]Following shot by Digimoments/ Dave Boyce - original ordered and paid for![/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nigel Wrote:'Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan "press on" has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.' - Calvin Coolidge.
Great quote. It makes me feel angry about myself, which is just what I need at the moment. I've got some excuses, like a niggling calf injury, but the real underlying reasons are, I expect, contained in the words of Coolidge. That Sweder fellow should be an inspiration to us all.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
